A Familiar Face
by ruth baulding
Summary: Just another day of exile. Featuring one and a half glasses of ale , a million-credit bounty, and a despicable hive of scum and villainy.
1. Chapter 1

**A Familiar Face**

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><p>1.<p>

There was a short half hour before dawn when the cold of night had fled, and the inferno of day had not yet arrived, when absolute stillness settled upon the desert. The winds, which shifted direction diurnally, and the susurration of rodent and reptile life, broke and changed rhythm. The land appeared in stark clarity, neither veiled by the dark nor yet warped and obscured by mirages. This time was the nadir, the heartbeat of emptiness between an exhalation and the next indrawn breath, the center point in a meditation, balanced between active striving and passive listening. This predawn moment was the planet's silent truth.

It was also a convenient time to travel. Most nocturnal predators had retired, while the daytime dangers had yet to rear their ugly heads from sandy burrows and dens. The Tusken people cherished a taboo against movement during this hour – the spirits claimed the brief twilit interlude as their own, and would be displeased by any interlopers. The sand would not burn an eopie's feet, heat not cause the beast to drop dead from thirst or sudden stroke. And to one who was burdened with the gift, the morning silence was a stretched typanum: any disturbance in the Force would be carried to his attention as swiftly and clearly as a shout.

This was why the hermit arrived in town well ahead of normal business hours, well ahead of the greater number of shopkeepers' assistants and delivery sleds drawn by beasts and ramshackle droids. Grav units were too rare and expensive this far out to be wasted on such quotidian affairs. The pharmacy he wished to enter was dark, shutters still closed over its low-arched door. The eopie which had borne him so many klicks from home munched in its feedbag, and blinked one brown eye at its owner, suggesting a jaded indifference to his plight.

"Enjoy your breakfast, my friend," he told it with a pat. "You've earned it – for once." The beast blinked and chomped, oblivious to the cutting jest, oblivious indeed to everything but its own gratification and a few annoying flies which already buzzed about its ample hindquarters. Rather like the majority of beings in the galaxy, the hermit mused cynically.

Stepping over a dried pile of eopie droppings from some previous occupant, he left the beast tethered in the corral behind the marketplace and went to seek out some more stimulating – and less odiferous- company. A caff vendor accosted him at the corner, and he purchased a large serving of the bitter, dark arjees brew- more for an excuse to loiter than for the taste. They drank it black here on Tatooine, with a filthy dredge of grit at the bottom of the cup. This last sludgy detritus was customarily taken into the mouth,, swished about, and then spat into the nearest gutter of patch of dry earth.

"So uncivilized," the hermit muttered, observing another early morning customer indulge in this vile habit a few paces down the street. He wandered slowly down the length of the main thoroughfare, pretending to savor his steaming beverage, senses unfurled through the plenum, seeking and listening for untoward presences, or the hint of troublesome events ahead. He waited for the pharmacy to finally open, so that he might attend to his business and depart before the streets grew crowded. The time dragged by, and the caff grew cold as the air began to ripple with warmth. The hermit crossed to the opposite side of the street and deliberately chose a spot to lean against a wall. He happened to lean against a Wanted poster, casually blocking his own lenticular image from view.

_Blast _the slothful pharmacist. Other shops were opening; why not his?

"Hey, cochoonka blimii, geezah," sneered a young male Rodian sporting an outdated pilot's jacket. He approached at a slow, predatory prowl.

The hermit's Huttese wasn't perfect – far from it – but he was familiar with the last term. _Old man?_ For stars' sake, forty standard years hardly qualified one as senile in most parts of the galaxy. But then, life here on this planet was nasty, brutish, and short. Most humans didn't make it too far past forty, simply because living conditions were so harsh.

"Da audee mo phonii? Cochoonka blimii, tibi geezah."

Now the brash young gangster, or whatever he called himself, was leaning forward into his face, round opalescent eyes threatening, puckered mouth drawn into a tight point of displeasure. The Force thrummed with his unsophisticated, bullying anger. He wanted the old man to get out of the way so he could have a clearer view of the poster, and the hefty Imperial bounties offered for the various villains it portrayed.

"That might prove…problematic," the hermit explained, with a hint of civil if insincere apology. He spoke Basic with a refined mid-rim accent. He did not budge.

The Rodian snorted. "_Prob-lemm-ateek?_" he mimicked. "Tooga la shenubi probbah, geezah." One green fist came up, lightning fast, to strike the offending curmudgeon out of the way. "Aiiii!" the young ruffian wheezed, cringing, as his wrist was caught in midswing and twisted into a sharp tendon-snapping bind. "Poodoo! Poodoo!" His free hand went for the custom blaster strapped at his hip, but likewise found itself imprisoned in a painful and precise grip.

"You have made a mistake. I am beneath your notice," the hermit told the Rodian, his voice pitched low and evenly. The thug's eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, and then he relaxed. The hermit released his hold.

"Shooni da boonka," the green-complected alien snorted, casting a contemptuous look at the bearded human standing before him. He shrugged and moved away, shambling across the dusty street with an affected swagger of indifference.

The hermit released a long breath, and brushed his fingertips against something cool and smooth concealed beneath the rough folds of his cloak. Most the natives accepted his eccentricities as the unfortunate effect of too much time spent alone, or of some hereditary mental infirmity. It was only the greedy ones – the bounty hunters and suchlike who worked for the resident Hutt overlord – who might even take a second look at him. But a second look might be all that was required. The image on the Wanted poster was a fairly accurate likeness, taken off the holonet footage from the last months of the war. He watched the belligerent youth who had accosted him just now enter a bar further down the street. Apparently he was presently out of work, and needing to drown his woes in the usual manner.

The hermit sighed and resumed his vigil, still blocking the inconvenient poster from public view. Then he noticed that the pharmacist was at long last open for business.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Familiar Face**

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><p>2.<p>

"More tabbaweed, eh?" the proprietor asked as he entered, recognizing him at once.

"Ah, yes," he smiled ruefully. "You know me – I never seem to have enough on hand."

The merchant nodded sympathetically. The mildly narcotic inhalant was the only comfort readily and cheaply available out here in the desert; most the moisture farmers and settlers used it to take the edge off an otherwise dreary existence. The hermit in fact never touched his own stock, but made a great pretense of always needing to supply an addictive habit. The ruse lent credence to the notion that he was a crazy and lonely old man, nothing more. "There you are," the shopkeeper said, placing a carton of the sweet smelling dried leaves upon the countertop. "Anything else to do for ya?"

"Yes. Yes, there is. I owe one of the farmers out yonder a sum of money. Name of Owen Lars. We never cross paths but once in a blue moon. He said to pay the money back under his account name here."

"Easy said as done," the pharmacist nodded, making a note of the name on his antiquated datapad. This method of settling debts and exchanging monies was common enough among those who lived so far apart from their neighbors; the town was the only point of intersection in their lives, and nobody trusted the Hutt-controlled banking system. Payment in credits to each others' accounts with various businesses was a form of local barter, and it kept currency flowing without a record – convenient on a world where tax evasion was the rule rather than the exception.

The hermit handed over a sizeable number of local credit chips earned by driving a hard bargain with the Jawa traders. Tatooine despised the new Imperial currency as much as it had disdained Republic credit in the old days. "Thank you. I imagine he'll be in soon. Word is, he's got a sick child out at the farm."

"Aye," the grizzled merchant replied. "Bantha flu. Goes round every few seasons. Makes em all stronger in the end – those that survive. Pity the meds are so expensive, coming all the way from the Core. Most can't afford it."

"Well, Lars should be able to now," the hermit pointed out, not mentioning that Lars would not even _need_ to if he had unbent from his well-meaning but ignorant prejudice, and permitted the hermit to practice certain …alternative…healing techniques on the sick toddler. But the stubborn farmer wouldn't let him so much as hold the boy, so here he was, ensuring that the young fool at least had sufficient credits with the pharmacy to afford the conventional cure.

Once departed from the relative cool of the pharmacy's interior, he was faced with the problem of occupying his time for the remainder of the day; it would be too hot to travel back across the desert by eopie until the two suns began to set early in the evening. Selecting a cantina far from the one in which the belligerent Rodian had chosen to spend his morning, the hermit settled in at a back table and ordered a heavy ale – a good excuse to linger here for several hours.

Above the bar a badly-tuned holonet plate played the latest news reports in a repeating loop. Most the customers chattered away animatedly or ignored the bland, monotonic voice of the protocol model newsdroid, considering intergalactic affairs to be mere filler between the real news items: tomorrow's weather and the scoop on the local podracing scene. The hermit's attention wandered freely over the entire company, half-consciously scanning the tavern's rooms for any sign of peaked hostility, danger, or unusual cognizance. Old habits died hard. And it paid to be careful.

The droid on the holo droned away: _…recent capture of six more Jedi traitors in the Mid rim. The prisoners have been executed for treason and conspiracy against the citizens of the Empire, and security measures have been tightened in all outlying systems. Grand Moff Peshallk has proposed an increased bounty on those wanted individuals still remaining at large. Information leading to the arrest or capture of these dangerous criminals should be relayed to your local law enforcement agency, or to the Imperial security outpost in your sector. For more details…_

After a while he stopped listening. The second glass of ale was cool, and had a rich aftertaste, and left a certain mild fuzziness in the mind – something he had never indulged in freely before his abrupt relocation to this hellhole planet. It was a good kind of fuzziness, he mused. It did not seem to interfere with the Force, in such small doses, and yet it softened the flow of bitter and unwelcome emotion, muted the harsh panoply of memory which threatened to well up from hidden depths, mocking and tormenting. When the Force itself was so darkened, so twisted and turgid, where could one turn for consolation other than the bottom of a deep flagon?

He suddenly pushed the half-empty cup to one side. Temptation lurked in every shadow here, as numerous and invasive as the grains of sand which swirled, shifted, collected everywhere. And that was another uncomfortable fact of life. He adjusted his frayed tunics, noting with irritation that sand was chafing against his sweat-dampened skin, leaving a painful trail along the hemlines. He scrubbed at his beard, too, releasing a small cascade of grit onto the already dubiously clean tabletop. So _filthy. _He hadn't been so damned _filthy_ since, oh…maybe Saleucamai. Or Bos Pity. Or.._No. Do not think about those times._

But the Force was determined to have the last laugh, at his expense; for when he looked up from his brief self-chastisement, he found himself looking straight into the all-too-familiar eyes and face of Jango Fett.

"Blast." He hurried out the back exit a half-minute after Fett's doppleganger had disappeared from view. Of course, it wasn't Fett himself – the infamous bounty hunter was long gone. But his face was forever engraved on the hermit's memory. He had fought Fett hand to hand, he had sent Fett to his death again and again, he had saved Fett from sudden destruction, joked with Fett, screamed at Fett, eaten and slept alongside Fett, and ultimately been betrayed by Fett, shot off that cliff face, left to die, left to drown or gasp out his last in agony. Because Fett took orders, and did not care whether he fought for the Republic or the Empire.

Behind the cantina was an alley. The clone's retreating shadow whipped around the corner, with the alacrity of a hunted beast. The hermit recognized it; he was a hunted thing himself, a branded traitor and criminal. Or he would be if anyone recognized him. That hadn't happened yet – but in that dreadful moment when his eyes had locked with Fett's across the crowded room, he knew that just as he had immediately seen the man in space tramper's clothing as a clone, the purported tramp had seen who and what _he_ was.

He dreaded this moment. Not because of what might happen should he be captured. The worst that the Empire could offer him was a slow, lingering death at the hands of torturers and executioners. He had already suffered that, inwardly, so the prospect held little sway over him. What he dreaded was this moment of decision. For now that he had at last been spotted, he must make up his mind what to do with the unfortunate witness. There was only one real, practicable way to silence a man effectively. His belly clenched. Not that he was a stranger to such acts; indeed, looking back on the last handful of years, anyone would say that he was a natural born killer. A _monstrosity._ A traitor to his own principles, a traitor to the Republic.

_No._ Again, temptations, laying in ambush around every corner of thought. Hungry as the hot wind that scoured the dunes beyond this town. Waiting for him to slip, make one fatal error and drop into the sarlaac pit of despair. He followed the clone further, into the spaceport's cool pedestrian arcade. Ah….the man was trying to blend with the crowd. It was possible that Fett's reincarnation was just as startled and disturbed by the chance encounter as he was. Two could play at that game. Time to be patient and observe.

Keeping the clone-tramper in view, the hermit found a chipped plastoid chair in the waiting area and slumped into its rigid contours, feigning boredom and complacency. The crowds sluggishly eddied around him, as transports came and went. His tramper friend settled in on the other side of the wide lobby, back against a wall, alms-begging dish set out forlornly before him. And they waited, each content to let the other make the next move.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Familiar Face**

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><p>3.<p>

Naturally, the affectation of indifference drew other bored loiterers to him like flies to a newly-dropped pile of eopie leavings. A corpulent humanoid sidled over and planted himself in the chair beside the hermit. The plastoid creaked ominously beneath his weight. "Where you headed to, friend?" he queried, lazily chewing a gob of bacci root and leaning back against the dented wall.

"Oh, off planet. It doesn't much matter where." An evasive answer, but one designed to discourage further interrogation. The clone-beggar had not yet moved. His alms-bowl was still empty, too – a sign of the times here on Tatiooine.

"Ah," the uninvited interloper chuckled. "Got a bounty on yer head?"

It was intended as a jest. The hermit forced a hearty chuckle, heart throbbing once in consternation. It really wasn't _funny._ Six others had been caught and executed in the Mid Rim. Who? Who had they been? Which members of his surrogate family, his only family, had been ruthlessly dispatched? He knew full well that _executed_ had been a euphemism. The stranger was staring at him, waiting for a reply. "A spot of family trouble," the hermit informed him lightly. "You know how it is."

The man nodded sagely, extracting a tabbaweed pouch and idly rolling himself a thin cheroot. "Do I know how it is? What one of us men don't, eh? I could tell ya stories, I could. So which is the trouble – wife or mistress?" He winked broadly as he offered the pouch to his new companion.

"Is that a mandatory question to earn a smoke?"

The large man guffawed. "Ah, you're a droll one friend. Help yourself. A family emergency calls for a bit o' weed, whichever lady it is. Hey – the trick to getting a good spot on the econo deck is to follow that guy." He pointed out the clone. "Trampers know all the ins and outs. Keep him in yer view."

"Thank you," the hermit said.

"Gotta find a 'fresher afore I explode, he he he he. Happy travels to ya." The intruder at last hoisted himself upward and wandered away, leaving the hermit in possesion of a half-rolled tabbaweed stick. He discreetly tossed it in a cycling container and drew his hood further over his face, blending his presence into the Force, fading from notice as best he could.

Soon enough his vigil was again interrupted, this time by a very large and unruly Togruta family who couldn't find any other seats in the rapidly filling terminal. The pair of giggling twin girls which plopped down on either side of him were another painful reminder of faces and times past…this time he breathed out slowly, releasing all emotion. There was nothing to be gained by retrospection.

"Would you like some chossknuts?" the right-hand child asked politely, proferring a greasy and much-abused sack of the sticky treats.

"Do you live here?" the other enquired, without any sign of natural shyness. "You don't look mean enough to live on Tatooine."

He smiled, despite his preoccupation. "Oh, I can look mean when I need to," he assured her, demonstrating his skills. But oddly enough, the expression which used to reduce his Padawan nearly to tears had quite the opposite effect on these little Togruta. The sisters squealed with delight and clapped, annoying other travellers nearby. Apparently he had lost his touch. Or perhaps it was fortunate that his one and only student had not been a _girl._ Whichever way, the realization was sobering.

"Ooooh! Your cross face is even better than Chen-Ti's," the child crooned. "She shoots fireballs out of her eyes when she's mad. And says scary things."

"Yeah," her enthusiastic counterpart agreed. "She says that if we're not good, our headtails will shrivel up and fall off!"

"She says that if we're bad, she will feed us to the _parsiki_ at the Coruscant zoo."

"She says that if don't behave, then the _Jedi _will come get us."

The hermit turned away. "That sounds awful," he said quietly. "What will the Jedi do if they get you?"

The child shrugged. "I don't know. Eat us, maybe? They steal children and eat them, and they can control your mind, and they have laser swords for killing people who don't do what they say."

A flicker of pain must have shown on his face, for the girl on his left patted his knee in childish consolation. "Don't worry," she soothed him. "Maman says the Jedi aren't real, not anymore."

"That's good," he forced himself to say. "I was worried there for a moment."

He was relieved when the two garrulous youngsters grew weary of the conversation and turned to amusing themselves with a game of cards. He pulled the hood of his cloak well over his face, checked to see that his mysterious friend in the tramper's suit had not yet moved, and retreated into the privacy of his own mind. The Force was astir with the innumerable petty annoyances of the travellers stranded in this dingy municipal spaceport, with the boredom and lethargy of the staff. Reaching deeper, letting his awareness sink beneath the particular and the sensory, he found that same black miasma that now seemed to fill the whole universe with its veiling, toxic presence: the Dark side, ubiquitous and triumphant, reveling in the imbalance which granted it untoward dominion. It was nauseating, and planted the seeds of a migraine behind his temples. Breathing slowly, banishing fear and loathing, he sought even deeper within the Force that bound all things – and rediscovered the Light. Not defeated, not even diminished, it lay in hiding, contracted and quiescent, the still center of a black tempest, an unmovable refuge amid the turmoil and false power of the Dark.

Pushing with difficulty through the sovereign Darkness, finding and resting in the hidden Light, quiescent within it, a bird wrapped in an endless undying breeze, drenched in light and warmth, he waited. It had taken many, many months to learn to do this - a long period of sorrow and frustration, during which he mourned for the loss of his center, his lifelong support. And even after his first glimpse, his initial taste of this meditative possibility, it had taken much hard work to master it.. He felt like a youngling again, a toddler proud at having acquired some new skill – levitating a small stone, or managing to navigate an obstacle course blindfolded. He had yearned to share the joyful discovery that the Light was not banished, only hidden – to run and ask questions, revel in the moment with a friend, a teacher. But his were either dead, or in exile as inaccessible as his own.

"Wake up, silly head. Wake up! The ship's boarding now. Better hurry up or you won't get a good place to sit. Maman is calling us, we have to go. We're going back to Shili. Are you? No? Well, good bye!" The Togruta hurriedly bid him farewell as they skipped away down the aisle, shoving their way through jostling adult bodies on their way to rejoin their family.

A quick scan of the suddenly bustling terminal confirmed that the clone, or tramper – depending on your point of view – had the perspicacity to take advantage of the confusion. His spot was empty, the whole space a jumbled maze of bodies and luggage carts. But the Force whispered, tattled on him, pointed the way to a back exit. The pressure door was marked _Emergency Only _in Huttese and Basic, but the alarm system was clearly malfunctional. The hermit opened it with a curt wave of his hand and slipped through, into a service alley where droids carted refuse bins and delivery crates to and fro. The tramper was hurrying into a cargo lift's cage.

It was a simple matter to jam the doors open, hold the lift in place and slip inside himself. The man stared at him wide-eyed as they stood within the clanking confines of the lift. Stripes of light and dark slashed across them as the mesh cage ascended. The hermit pointed two fingers at the controls and the machine ground to a halt, leaving them suspended several levels above the ground. He carefully lowered his hood.

The clone – for there could be no more doubt; the man had a bizarre insignia and a series of numbers tattooed on his skull – studied him with an expression of mingled disbelief and greed, as though he had reached into a septic pit and pulled out a bar of aurodium. "Well," he chuckled, in that voice. The voice that filled every corner of the galaxy, it seemed. The voice that gave orders, and responded to them, and uttered horrible battle cries and screamed its way into capricious death on a hundred different systems. Fett's voice. "General Kenobi. The million-credit man."


	4. Chapter 4

**A Familiar Face**

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><p>4.<p>

"It's Ben. _Ben_ Kenobi. You've mistaken me for someone else." The hermit had little hope that a mind trick would avail him anything; the fact that the individual standing before him had enough individuality to be a deserter also meant that he was minimally altered at the genetic level. The Kaminoans, in their quest to manufacture a perfect army, had spared a tiny percentage of their product – or victims, depending on your point of view – from the degradation of complete docility. And that in turn meant that this man had a will like Jango Fett's – iron and immovable.

He was right. "Yeah, " the tramper snorted. "And I'm a whore from Mos Espa, lookin' for a new employer."

Respect for one's commanding officer had gone the way of civilization in general, apparently. But the hermit still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Genetic alteration was only one method the cloners had used to develop an obedient soldier; intensive conditioning began early – earlier even than Jedi training. "Trooper!" he barked. "Identify."

Reflexively, Fett's copy jerked into a rigid stance, eyes riveted directly ahead. "CT 726480, Rancor Squadron, Special Operations," he rattled off, before rational thought could intervene. A half-second after he had uttered the deeply ingrained response, his face twisted into an expression of hateful revulsion. "You kriffing Jedi _bastard!"_ he snarled. "I should kill you right here."

But the lightsaber hilt was already in the hermit's hand. CT726480 eyed it warily, his limbs frozen in a posture of arrested hostility. He knew what it was, and he knew what it could do. "You won't be killing anybody," the hermit – Jedi, General, outlaw, refugee- said quietly. "What's your _name?"_

The man's soft laugh was bitter, and weary. "I'm goin' by Womprat these days," he growled. "You like it? It's better'n your prissy-stiff-arse name, _Obi Wan._"

Resentment roiled off the man like the infamous stink off his chosen namesake. "I prefer Ben, at least in these parts, if you don't mind. Now that we've been introduced, I suggest we decide what to do about this unfortunate meeting."

Womprat's dark eyes rested on the saber. "You gonna kill me, Jedi? Hurry it up. I've waited long enough."

The hermit shifted, impatience eroding his calm control. "I'm not going to kill you in cold blood. I do need to know what you intend to do about this encounter."

The clone leaned back against the cool metallic grid of the lift cage, speculatively. His arms crossed over his chest and he tipped his partially shaven head to one side. "Huh," he grunted. "You know they just doubled the bounty on you, Genera - _Ben?_ Your mystical backside is worth a half million dead, but the Empire's offering twice that for your capture. Vader's orders. What do you think of that?"

"I'm flattered," he said scornfully. He was afraid. Half a million credits was the market value placed on revenge. What that might consist of, he would not dare imagine. He didn't need to. The thought of seeing _him_ again, hideously transformed, mangled body and soul – his spirit twisted by Darkness, his young body mutilated…hacked to pieces and left to burn, broken by the hand that once was extended in friendship, in fatherly pride – was almost too much. Rank fear and a swell of nausea sent a chill down his spine. His free hand tightened on the hand rail of the lift. He must not show weakness to Womprat.

"A million credits would buy me the rest of my life back. Asteroid of my own. Enough money to live easy. It's nothing personal, " the clone explained. "You're a wanted man. I would just be obeying orders."

"That's the trouble though, isn't it?" Ben reasoned with him. Negotiation, the old stand-by. Someone had once said he could out-talk the grim reaper, if he put his mind to it. Apparently he was to be put to the test, yet again. "You aren't obeying orders, not anymore. You can't collect a bounty; you're just as wanted as I. Desertion is still punishable by immediate imprisonment and death. And I don't plan on cooperating with your scheme."

Womprat studied him thoughtfully. "I could spilt the profits with someone else. There's plenty here on planet that would love to go divvies on you."

The Jedi gestured dismissively. "Surely you are not fool enough to trust anyone on Tatooine. You will never find a more despicable hive of scum and villainy."

The ex-clone's upper lip curled, in that peculiar way he and his brothers had. It gave them a feral, unpredictable appearance. "One word from me and you're dead, Kenobi."

"I might point out that the inverse also applies."

Womprat shook his head, frustrated. A bevy of droids gathered on the decks far below them, warbling and bleeping in consternation. Soon enough they would be bombarded by an emergency services team, intent on rescuing the stranded pair from the apparently malfunctioning lift. Neither of them desired such attention; they shared a fragile anonymity. The hermit waved a hand and set the cage into motion once more. It rattled upward toward its distant moorings, again painting them in a rapid kaleidoscope of shadow and light.

"I'm not letting you outta my sight, Jedi."

"Nor I you." The saber disappeared behind a fold of his long cloak, but its message remained imprinted firmly on his interlocutor's mind. It had bought him a brief stalemate; but Ben was under no delusion that the balance of power was stable. One false move, and either or both of them would surely end up dead – or worse.

The lift jerked to a standstill at the summit of its tower, and they cautiously exited. Here, on the upper landing platform, smaller craft lifted off and settled, a flock of agitated moths. The duracrete, cracked and worn and stained with coolant and lubricant spills, was already baking in the late morning sun. The hermit shifted his feet carefully, to keep the heat from searing through the soles of his nerfhide boots. When this pair finally wore out, he would be hard pressed ever to find replacements of such quality. The very act of worrying about such mundane details was a novelty to him; but he accepted the humiliation as part of his exile. Beside him, in his battered tramper's gear, Womprat matched him pace for confident pace.

The entrance was blocked by a cordon and a small clutch of uniformed men – some in the drab grey of the Imperial navy, some in medics' garb. Two storm troopers flanked the doors, their white armor painfully reflecting the suns' excessive splendor.

"There's two more!" one of the uniformed men called out, indicating the pair of vagrants crossing the tarmac. A medic and two of the others jogged forward, their faces set in the hard and idealistic lines of benevolent despotism.

The Force tightened as Womprat shifted into battle awareness, his mind instantly reverting to its ingrained default setting. Ben grasped his forearm in warning. "We have no motive for running, or suspicion," he reminded the clone. "Relax." The habit of obedience was not entirely lost to the maverick clone; the words, issued in a tone of quiet authority, had a marvelously soothing effect on the man. They slowed to a confused shuffling as the three officials hurried forward.

"You there!" the medic hailed them. "Excuse me. Would you step inside for a moment? No, no need to worry – we've set up a free clinic. The bantha flu outbreak, you see. Imperial Public Health is providing screening and treatment services – to contain the epidemic. Please…won't you come just this way?"

The naval officers behind the sallow-faced medic, and the storm troopers behind them, maintained a stony silence, a wordless declaration that the invitation was in point of fact a command. The hermit considered the small group affably, blue eyes squinting in the bright sunlight.

"We've already been seen and treated,"" he informed the speaker, making a soft gesture with one hand.

"We've already treated them," the medic recalled, absent-mindedly withdrawing a datapad and scrolling through its record screen. "Yes…uh….well…what was your patient ID number again?"

"I've quite forgotten," Ben smiled. "But it isn't important."

"It's not important," the man agreed, relief smoothing over the confused rumples marring his tall forehead. He pocketed the datapad and half-turned away, but one of his more obstreperous and single-minded companions waylaid him with a hand on his drab tunic's sleeve.

"If they're not on record, we should process them again," he hissed. "We don't need to spread contagion because we overlooked a tramp and a beggar. And make sure the forms are filled out properly." He nodded sharply at the two indigents. "Come this way," he said in a brisk tone. "It won't take but a moment."

The wanderers were herded along into the broad pavilion, escorted by several enthusiastic public servants clad in Imperial military uniforms.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Familiar Face**

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><p>5.<p>

The interior of the "free clinic" was a study in contrasts; beneath the corroded antique girders of the spaceport hangar roof, a maze of gleaming plastoid cubicles had been erected, staffed by Core worlders in scrubbed and sterile medical gowns. Two burnished med droids tottered alongside their efficient supervisors, laden with sealed and packaged vials and blood sample kits. The entire operation stank of cleanliness, of a ruthless scourging. The hermit exhaled, tasting the sweet-sour odor of cleansing chemicals in the back of his throat, the sharp-dull ache of darkness in his mind. Purge, purge, purge. Rid the galaxy of contagion, of dissent, of…Jedi.

He managed to convey doddering hesitancy in his gait, when he wanted to flee – or else brandish his saber and start fighting. Beside him, Womprat showed no signs of similar distress. Manufactured and raised in just such a rigid environment, by beings with just such a clinical outlook, he found their new surroundings unremarkable.

"Please. Wait here." A brusque woman ushered them into a small waiting area, its shiny plastoid chairs and benches loaded with the dregs of sentient life. Tramps, beggars, the poverty-stricken, bantha hunters, prospectors, crazy hermits, freed slaves without enough credits to promote themselves any further above the mere legal fact of liberty, drunks, racing addicts, weed addicts, nameless elderly and diseased: they were all here, in rags and tatters, wheezing, coughing, spitting, mumbling, and reeking. The Force sloshed and swirled around them, messy, complicated, irrational, and untrammeled by rules and expectations. The crowd was a living affront to the new Imperial Order.

The hermit allowed himself a small rebellious smirk. Perhaps he could resign himself to perpetual filthiness, if it symbolized the recalcitrance of life, its indifference to the tyrant's lofty and sterile aspirations. An Ithorian shambled by, his wrinkled skin exuding a pungent blend of pheromone and sweat. The hermit stepped aside reflexively. Or perhaps not.

The clone and he sat down warily on opposite sides of a narrow aisle, watching each other closely. There was safety here, in the maudlin crowd of outcasts and pariahs. And there was danger – layer upon layer of threat. The medics, the storm troopers, possibly clones like Womprat beneath their faceless masks, and the Imperial officers. Why should there even be a military presence at something as harmless as a public health clinic? The Dark crawled over the hermit's flesh, a net drawing in, a thin wire of malice scraping raw across his nerves.

He couldn't yet say why, but this was not good.

It would be difficult to leave without attracting too much attention; it would be imprudent to stay. His saber hilt rested lightly against his thigh; how simple it would be to ignite the weapon, challenge any who dared to stop him from departing at will. He knew with a cold certainty that he could leave a swath of bodies, of severed limbs, of destroyed equipment, possibly the entire pavilion in ruins, if he wanted to. He could do it – he had done it before. He had fought his way free of much worse situations. Wanton violence could have a certain grace and elegance to it. It could be done with style. Oh, how he knew.

But the moment he showed that weapon, the moment his anonymity burned to dust in the blaze of its humming blue light, was the moment he would have to leave the planet never to return. It was a sabaac card he could play but once…and now was not the time. He had promised, aboard the Alderaanian cruiser: _I will take the boy and watch over him._ He did not break a promise. He was true to his word, even if Owen Lars worked to confound him at every turn. He had a mandate to fulfill, an oath to uphold. And that meant staying here, in this vile and forgotten suburb of the Nine Hells, until the Force saw fit to bestow a new hope on the galaxy, or until he died – whichever merciful event came first.

He and Womprat and a handful of others were escorted to a second white-walled cubicle – a treatment or screening area. A pair of stout humanoid nurses and a newly upgraded med droid busily worked their way down the line, extracting a simple blood sample from each successive "client" and feeding the specimen into a bio-data analyzer. Some were directed to the left, others to the right, depending on the outcome of the scan. The hermit watched the innocuous process with a growing sense of imminent doom. Something was not right here…

"I hate this whole blasted routine," Womprat sighed. "Been here too many times. Mass vaccinations, radiation exposure scans, all that.' He looked up at the med assistant standing over him. "Here, just stick me and get on with it. I got better things to be doing."

Danger lanced so sharply across the hermit's vision that he winced and sucked in a breath. _Leave. Get out. Go now._

The clone fixed him with an amused glare. "You're squeamish? That's a kriffin' joke."

_Yes. _"Yes…I'm afraid so…excuse me, I'll be just a moment." He made a great show of stumbling toward a 'fresher. To his dismay, the exits were still blocked by troopers, by more of the ubiquitous naval officers. Not that he was limited to using a conventional exit. He could be out of this building and down the road into town in thirty seconds flat. But he still had Womprat to consider. He mustn't let the man out of his sight. Not until they had reached an agreement…or an impasse. He waited for the nurse to move down the line and then returned, resuming his vigil by the clone's side.

Soon enough the woman returned. "Feeling better? It's just a prick- you can look away if it upsets you."

"You've already done me," he told her.

"That's right – I did you already. Sorry." She moved away.

"You're not in the records," the second assistant frowned, lingering over them indecisively. "You," she pointed to Womprat. "You're not a carrier. Get in line for a vaccination. Over there." The tramper complied, rolling his eyes in disgusted resignation, leaving the hermit alone in the emptied row of plastoid seats. "I can't find you anywhere in here…" She scrolled through screen after screen on the datareader.

He moved his hand subtly. "You've just seen my entry. I should go into the line with that other fellow."

"You better get into line with that other fellow," she commanded, pointing to Womprat's back. "Go on. We've got more people waiting."

The new waiting area was smaller, and more crowded. A long train of unwashed bodies and greasy clothing meandered its way down a narrow aisle where more efficient health workers were hard at work administering the standard bantha flu vaccination. Another med droid bustled along beside them, and a pair of orderlies swiftly tapped information into datapads and hustled people out the far doors, back into the blinding sunlight outside. The entire gauntlet was supervised by a thin officer in the Imperial naval uniform, his pinched face surveying the controlled chaos with an expression of superior disdain.

The hermit slipped into line behind Womprat, The med droid shuffled to the back of the line and referred to its own records. "You have not been screened for exposure," it told the hermit. "Just a moment."

_Blast. _Droids were, of course, impervious to mind influence. He was acutely aware of the Imperial officer idly watching the exchange, of the Wanted poster hanging just inside the double doors to the outside world. He mustn't make a scene – not here, not now. The droid grasped his wrist and pressed the blood sampling unit against his open palm.

"Very good," the med unit droned, inserting the device into a reader and waiting for the results to show up. "Ah…you possess an immunity to six different strains of bantha flu. The vaccination will not be necessary. You may proceed to the exit."

Ahead of him, one of the other assistants, clad in the shapeless uniform of clinicians everywhere, was fussing over Womprat. The hermit ambled slowly toward the doors, practicing a gait he thought very evocative of early-onset arthritis, and waiting for the clone to be released alongside him. It was high time they resumed their interrupted conversation.

"Just a moment." His path was barred by the flinty eyed Imperial. "Excuse me. The droid said you are immune to bantha flu already. How does that come to be, I wonder?" There was something more than idle curiosity in the man's harsh gaze – something which set the Force into a conflagration of warning.

"Why, I had the disease as a youth, of course," the hermit replied evenly. Conveniently, this was also the truth.

The officer shifted his weight, eyes flicking sideways toward a pair of armored guards loitering behind a plastoid partition. The subtle motion was not lost on the hermit. "I'm sure," he smiled wanly. "But _six_ different strains? You must be _very_ well-traveled."

Womprat was now making for the exit. He saw the pair conversing quietly by the door, and slowed, his suspicion and misgiving flaring bright in the already twisting Force. The hermit breathed out the mounting tension in his gut. "I've been about in my time, yes," he cautiously answered. Then, on the moment's inspiration he added, "Ah…tax collectors can be very diligent, I'm afraid."

The deception almost worked. He could sense the officer's peaked interest fade at the mention of tax evasion. The story was more than plausible, and explained the facts nicely. The hermit coughed and tugged his hood forward a little further. Womprat lingered outside the doors, head craned in their direction, every muscle taut.

The Imperial's grey eyes narrowed. "Yes…." he mused softly to himself. "I daresay." He stepped aside, his focus never wavering as he watched the hermit shuffle his way to the exit, passing by the Wanted poster without so much as sparing it a second glance.

"What the kriff do you think you're playing at?" Womprat demanded as they slipped through the doors together, the initial wave of afternoon heat hitting them like the blast off a smelting furnace.

"Keep walking," Ben ordered, curtly. "We're going to be followed."

"What? You're not selling my skin to save your own, Kenobi."

"Nobody is _selling_ anybody. Be quiet and do as I say, or we're both dead."

The clone took three more strides forward across the burning duracrete deck. "I don't _trust_ you, Jedi."

Three storm troopers appeared from around the far side of the hangar. Twenty meters to the lift, two levels down. A parking garage, a service alley, the crowded terminal and the vending plaza. It was simple matter of disappearing….but how to keep the clone by his side? He needed to stay _with_ Womprat as much as he needed to escape the over-inquisitive Imperials.

"You'll have to," he replied, tartly. _Please trust me. Don't turn on me. Don't make me destroy you. _The horrible words echoed in his mind, carried on the hot wind. Tatooine's oppressive heat and the scorched air of the lava mining pits mingled together, oozed out of memory into the present, an unwelcome eruption of molten fire, of pain. Mustafar. Force….why dwell on that now? . He staggered, caught himself, turned to look at the clone.

Womprat had stopped in his tracks. For a moment Ben looked into the hardened eyes of Fett, of Cody. Of the man who had given the order to blast him off the cliff face on Utapau, of the man who had executed the order, of the men who came looking for his body, hunting, seeking, pursuing him like a cornered foxill down to this last star-forsaken hiding place. Of the man who had similarly betrayed and murdered his friends, his brothers, his sisters, his other selves. Fett and he; always the same, always locked in mortal combat, with each other, against each other, it hardly mattered why or when.

'I don't kriffing _have_ to do anything!" the clone snarled at him. "Not anymore!"

And with those words, he leapt for the hermit's throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Familiar Face**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

And he was locked in combat with Jango Fett again, sliding and slipping over the polished deck of a Kaminoan landing pad, the rain pelting down on them as they strove to subdue one another, saber against blaster, fist against fist, speed and strength pitted in equal measure. Only the rain was hot wind and stinging sand, and the deck was the scuffed and burning slab of a Tatooine spaceport.

But Fett was the same: trained, determined, without compunction. "You're not taking me down with you," the clone - the bounty hunter, the space tramper- snarled, lurching forward to seize the Jedi by his throat.

It was a simple matter to allow his attacker's impetus to carry them both backward, onto the hard deck, to bring a foot up under the man's ribs and send him tumbling over his body, headfirst into the unforgiving ground. They twisted about, sprang up in the same instant, crouched. The hermit's fingertips brushed against his saber's hilt, hidden beneath his tattered cloak hem. His peripheral vision caught the flutter of pedestrians, potential observers, across the way. _Not here, not now._

The clone came at him like a murderous colwar, doing full justice to his special training as a commando of the Rancor Squadron. His first two strikes were easy to block, but the third caught the hermit in the solar plexus and laid him open to a second punch in the chin. He twisted into the hit, slammed an elbow into the clone's ribs and seized his arm, wrenching it back, forcing the man to shift his weight upward…

But he _couldn't _simply throw a full-grown man over his shoulder. Crazy and harmless old coots did not display such ruthless martial skills. Especially Force-enhanced maneuvers. He settled for popping Womprat's elbow out of joint and ducking beneath a retaliatory strike to his jaw. They circled, the clone's dark eyes now burning with pain.

Adrenaline flooded, cold and fleet, through the hermit's veins. The Force, held at bay, suppressed and bound in chains, did not stem the rush of darker thoughts, of memory. Fett's rain-slicked armor faded and was replaced by the faceless, nameless uniform of the Grand Army…of the traitorous, murdering mob that had ambushed, mowed down, hunted and killed their own Generals, who had been the first to commit the atrocities perpetuated by the Purge. Womprat was a thousand others, identical to himself, every one of them suddenly, inexplicably transforming form friend into foe, into mindless automata, puppets of evil.

The clone aimed a kick at his head; had his brothers even paused a fraction of a second before executing their orders? He dodged, twisted, lunged, struck at his enemy's knee. Had they taken pleasure in a job well done, in spilling the blood of Jedi on hundreds of systems? Had they leered, just like that, with pure animal satisfaction, with cunning delight, when they shot down Plo Koon? When they riddled Ki Adi's body with blasterfire? When they shot Aayla in the back? When they tried to ambush Master Yoda on Kashyykk? When they sent _him_ plummeting to his presumed death on Utapau? Had they felt anything? He slammed his boot heel hard into Womprat's groin, slewed round to deliver a sharp blow to his cheekbone.

They had not felt the Force _shrieking_ with pain and loss. They felt _nothing._

The clone fought back hard, blocking and evading, seizing him in a wrestling hold. They fell, writhing, to the hot duracrete. Womprat's broken nose spattered red droplets on the stained decking; their hands, slick with perspiration, dug at each other's flesh, seeking a firm hold. The clone snapped his head forward, cracking his hard skull against the hermit's chin, following up with a punch that sent his foe's head crashing backward. Star swam in the Jedi's vision, ringed with scarlet fire.

The clone was crushing him now, one knee slowly pressing the air from his lungs, one hand around his throat, the other grasping wildly for the saber at his belt. No! He seized the hilt, and they struggled, each vying to wrest the deadly weapon from the other's grip. The clone's face was contorted with effort, with desperation, with fear, with hate.

His was the face that had marched on the defenseless Temple, had set its hallowed halls to burning, had sought out and _murdered_ its babes, its innocent children, the infants in the crèche - leaving a trail of small bodies, of slain younglings, so abominable, so foul and unspeakable, that the Force had shattered, melted, exploded into agony. The memory took his breath away; the buried images of the carnage, of the corpses, of the blaster burned bodies, the piteous crumpled heaps upon the mosaic floor, the howling in his heart as he knelt beside them, screamed into renewed vibrancy within him.

He did not use the Force; he used his raw grief. He slammed the murdering, filthy face of the Empire into the duracrete, pinned him down, forced the saber hilt up, up, until it rested beneath the man's chin, both their hands wrapped about the gleaming hilt. Footsteps echoed through the hot deck, urgent, approaching fast.

The clone's eyes widened in knowledge. Obi Wan's finger hovered above the activator switch. The blue blade would go straight through Womprat's skull, into the deck, and disappear again, in a devastating flash, a single second. Why not? He was no Jedi anymore. He hadn't been in years. He had traded his honor for the rank of General…and by the end of the war, he had sunk from mercenary to assassin. He had gone after Grievous in cold blood, had he not? He had gone to dispatch him, and he had. And beyond that…he had been commissioned to kill his own brother. And he had done that, too. Yes, he had done that, though he thought he could not.

This he could do. The tramp of booted feet drew nearer. Womprat's gaze held his, mutely pleading. Begging for a reprieve, for mercy, for a second chance. Temptation stroked at him, softly, clawed sweet-hot down his spine. It would be _so easy…_

His hand loosened, let go the hilt. Womprat stared at him, arrested by disbelief. The boots thundered up to them. Rough hands pulled them apart. Reflexively, the clone shoved the saber hilt beneath his frayed vest and stumbled backward in the grip of an Imperial storm trooper. Another hauled the hermit onto his feet.

"Hey! Break it up! What's going on here?" one of the troops demanded. He had a broad Outer Rim accent - not a clone, then, but rather a new recruit to the seductive service of Power.

"He attacked me!" Womprat stammered, keeping his face down, shuffling about clumsily.

"Get outta here!" the soldier barked at him, shoving him roughly away. He joined his companion, who had a tight grip on the hermit. "This is the one we're looking for."

Womprat stumbled backward a few more paces, staring. He turned, jogged across the decks, looked over his shoulder again, ran for the lift, still clutching the saber hilt beneath his vest.

"You're comin' with us," the second trooper declared, fishing out a pair of binders while his companion trained a blaster on the captive.

"I'm afraid there is some mistake," the hermit explained politely. "I am not the man you are looking for."

The helmets tilted a little to one side. "This isn't the one we're looking for," one trooper repeated.

"Move along."

The trooper gave him a shove between the shoulders and gestured with his weapon. "Well? Move along, old man. We don't have time for you."

The old man did not waste time in obeying. He hurriedly complied, making a straight line across the open duraceret in the same direction the tramper had just gone. He felt the men behind him groggily searching about their surroundings, unsure what their purpose had been, unsure what to do next. He smiled a little and pulled his hood forward, picking up speed as he made for the lift.

The stun bolt hit him squarely in the small of the back.

His legs gave way, his nerves exploded with white fire, the Force itself seemed to fragment and evade his grasp, like quicksilver. He clung to consciousness as his body hit the hot ground, convulsing. No, no, no…

Another set of boots; a different voice. A hand grasped a fistful of his hair and jerked his head backward. The barrel of a blaster pressed against the base of his skull.

"Don't try anything, Kenobi. I'd like the full reward, but I would be quite content with a half million," warned the Imperial naval officer from the free medical clinic. The man leaned down closer, his breath hissing hot against his prisoner's ear. "Your blood sample was _very, very_ interesting indeed. I must thank you for making me a rich man."

He pulled the trigger again, and the world disappeared.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Familiar Face**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

The fragmented, elusive Force slid and brushed against him, over him – a scintillating, teasing presence, a fruit perpetually out of reach, a horizon always retreating before his eager grasp. The headache, on the other hand, was oppressively real and immediate. He breathed it out, and out again, but it seemed limitless in its origins. Sensation pieced itself back together, a puzzle reluctantly falling into place. Cool air. Refreshing…but not right. Cold air was not good. Not here on Tatooine. It prickled the sweat on his skin into a thousand points of ice, of foreboding. He struggled to focus his vision. White and grey. Also not good. Tatooine was gold, brown, dull red. Earthy, natural, sun-baked. Not crisp and pure, not scourged of color. A faint thrumming, a gentle vibration beneath his back. That was dreadfully familiar – space craft, drives on standby. He recognized the sensation instantly.

But what in stars' name was he doing aboard a ship?

He jerked himself awake, setting his headache into a paroxysm of objection. Vision still hopelessly smeared, he focused on movement instead. That proved difficult enough to occupy his whole attention for several long minutes; but when he at last succeeded in regaining control of his arms and legs, he discovered that he had been very effectively bound- hand and foot – with some type of electrocuffs. The subtle current pulsing through the conductive binders promised a swift encore to the annihilating shock which had landed him in this situation, should he struggle too fiercely.

"Hm," he grunted, not quite up to speaking yet. A simple application of the Force, on the locking mechanism, and he would be free. He reached for the Light…and again, he was confounded. It swelled around him at his behest, and yet he could not control it, direct it. _Blast_, his head hurt.

There were voices speaking nearby. The storm troopers who had accosted him on the landing deck. Their words were slightly muffled behind the thick helmets' insulation, but he could make out some of the conversation.

"Did he say how long he'd be?"

"I dunno. He's coming back with a couple of replacements. I'm already past shift- this better be overtime. What's so important about this guy anyway?"

"Heh," the first trooper snorted. "Big time tax evader, prob'ly."

"Yeah, well, better be overtime for this. I could use a couple of pints down at the cantina. This place is a piece of chizzk hellhole of an assignment."

A short, bitter laugh. "Beats Hoth any day, brother. Brothels there got nothing in 'em but a bunch of she-wampas."

Some sniggering and coughing later, and the men resumed their idle chatter. "Better Hoth than time on Vader's detail. I'll take this an' keep my mouth shut if I don't have to see _him_ , know what I mean?"

"I hear you. Don't tell that poor bastard in there, though."

More nasty chuckling. "Nah – he's so doped up he'll never even know what hit 'im."

The hermit twisted a little in outrage. _Drugs?_ That would certainly account for some of the more inconvenient aspects of his present situation. What was more disturbing than his own personal predicament was the implication that the Empire had been hard at work developing some toxic cocktail potent enough to interfere with a Force-user's inborn abilities. The very notion smacked of the Dark Side….of Palpatine. Or any one of his wicked flatterers and servants, the maggots that multiplied and fed on the bloated corpse of the Republic.

For all he knew, he was on the way to a personal audience with the evil Sith lord and self-appointed Emperor himself. Stars, why did he have such a confounded talent for landing himself in trouble? He could almost hear a half-forgotten voice affectionately chiding him:_ Master, how is it that you always end up needing a rescue? _And his own dry retort: _Because I spend far too much time in your company, Anakin._

And with that thought, despair seeped through his defenses like insidious poison. Anakin. _Oh, Anakin. __I loved you. _And that was his undoing, wasn't it? Because a Jedi should not have allowed himself such an emotion, should not have indulged in the luxury of having a brother, a son, a friend such as his one and only Padawan had been. Vader had consumed Anakin – that was what Yoda had told him. Had held out to him as pabulum and comfort, as gentle deceit. As a lie, to help him in his darkest hour. Only it had been made truth, too…for on the shores of a magmaic river, Anakin had indeed been consumed by Vader – he had burned, screaming in agony, eaten alive by Vader's boundless hatred. And his ashes had been molded and hideously re-animated by Palaptine's black arts, a ghoulish imitation of the living man, an undead and gutted mockery of that bright, bright boy…

He twisted too hard, and the electrocuffs made known their displeasure; the vibrant shocking fire redoubled his hammering headache and set his pulse to frenzied drumming and renewed the cold sweat soaking through his worn tunics. And he did not know whether his eyes watered with pain or with the grit and floating embers of Mustafar. Anakin had not been consumed by Vader; Anakin had been destroyed by _him. _He had failed: failed Anakin, failed Qui Gon, failed the Jedi, failed the entire galaxy. He had not trained the boy as he promised, but rather shaped him into a weak and broken thing, a vessel ready to be filled with Darkness, a easy pawn in the Sith's game. He had thus betrayed his own brother to the most awful fate, and thereby the Jedi to their destruction, his friends to their deaths, the galaxy to tyranny and endless fear. If one of them had deserved to perish there on the brink of the hells, it had been him. He should have perished long ago…when he fought Greivous. When he faced Dooku. When he tangled with Fett. Before that, even. He should have perished in Theed, when he fought Maul. When darkness first reached for him – then he should have surrendered and spared the galaxy the results of his continued existence and folly. He had no illusions as to why Vader and the Empire wanted him alive. But whatever he might suffer at their hands, he deserved it all. And more.

_But…_ the tiniest thread of a voice spoke from deep within, where his spirit still clung tenaciously to the roots of the Living Force, …_it isn't yours to judge, is it?_

"No, master," he half whimpered, addressing the Force itself, the multitude of voices which seemed to echo in its hidden depths, Qui Gon Jinn – if he were indeed still there to hear, as Yoda had said. _Pull yourself together, Kenobi._ He scowled fiercely and began the arduous climb, hand over hand, out of the black pit. It wasn't his to judge. His destiny was not his own to choose, nor had it been since he had solemnly sworn his life to the service of the Force. Was he a Jedi or not? He might also be a mercenary, an assassin, and a heartless murderer, but nothing could eradicate the fact of that oath, of his duty. And he did still have a duty: Luke. The child was Anakin reborn, the pure and gentle babe Anakin should have been. Padme, somehow, had nurtured within her body the bright seed of a second chance for Anakin….for the galaxy at large. But Padme was dead and in her grave. The only one left to watch over that single, delicate seed of hope was him. He _must_ get off this ship and return to his long vigil. And he _must_ deal with Womprat, too.

Despair slunk away, defeated. "Thank you," he breathed, from the bottom of his heart.

The boarding ramp hissed open, admitting a gust of burning air and grit, and a threesome of dark shadows. The blurred forms moved inside, tramped about the small cabin, barked orders at the troopers waiting in the cockpit. People shifted and murmured, their shapes and voices distorted and dulled, carried to his senses across a shimmering wall of confusion. The Force still hovered, tantalizing, just out of reach.

"You two report back to your posts at the clinic. These men will accompany us. We need to be in orbit by nineteen hundred hours standard time. A cruiser has been sent to meet us."

The original guards departed, closing the ramp with a hiss. Two others took their place, lingering in the small passenger cabin, morbidly curious. The third figure- a shadow swathed in dull grey, crisply tailored clothing, loomed over him, gloating. Why did they always have to gloat? It was appallingly rude.

"I do not think even your precious Force will help you now," the Imperial officer sneered.

Perhaps he was a bit light-headed from the drugs; or perhaps he was still giddy from his near-brush with damning despair, but the remark struck him as humorous. He couldn't suppress his chuckle. "The Force is more powerful than you can imagine," he told his captor blithely.

"Laugh while you can, Kenobi." The Imperial snapped. He shoved the prisoner's sleeve down and unloaded another hypo into his arm. "And say farewell to this lovely spot you've chosen as a retirement home."

The poison sludge burned acidic in his veins, and the outside world melted like wax into a nauseating smear of color and sound, dizzying motion. The officer went forward; the cockpit door sealed; the drives thrummed as the ship lifted off the parched duracrete and ascended into the heat-scrubbed heavens.

"So," one of the guards muttered to his companion, "What'd this guy do, eh?" He had Fett's voice; a real, genuine clone, then, one of the leftover scraps from the Dark's grisly repast, the feast of the wars in which blood had been drunk like spilled wine, death served in gluttonous heaps to its unwilling guests. "Gotta have a steep bounty on him."

"Oh, yeah," the other agreed. Another clone, by the sound of him. He removed his helmet and stepped nearer to the prisoner. "He's a beauty."

The hermit started. The speaker was Womprat.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Familiar Face**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Womprat, encased in the black and white armor of the new Order, flawlessly transformed from runaway to man of the rank and file, checked the binders to make sure they were secure. He also jostled them a bit too much, sending a bright lance of fire through the prisoner's limbs.

"Yeah," he muttered. "This one's worth his weight in aurodium."

The second clone stepped forward, peering closely at the hermit's face. "Hey!" he exclaimed, comprehension dawning, "That's General Ke – unngh!"

Womprat's punch sent him reeling backward, into the opposite bulkhead. In a flash, the rogue trooper had crossed the narrow space, seized his comrade in a difficult grip, pried off his helmet, slammed his head against the wall again, and twisted. There was a sharp crack, as of bone breaking, and the muffled thump of a body sliding to the floor.

"That man was your brother, Womprat," the prisoner growled at him. Such a waste…and over what? Money?

"I don't have any brothers," the clone snarled. "Not that I trust. Not with a million credits at stake."

"Don't be a fool. You can't possibly take this ship and escape alive. The Empire will come looking for you. And _I _certainly have no intention of cooperating, as I told you before."

Womprat leaned over him. "You talk a lot, General," he said, and gave the electrocuffs a sharp jerk. He smiled coldly at the hermit's loud cry of pain. "Shut up and this'll be easier for both of us."

He checked his belt pouches, and withdrew the burnished hilt of a lightsaber. Hefting the stolen weapon in one hand, he pressed his ear to the panel separating them from the cockpit. Beneath them , the ship thrummed, rising rapidly through Tatooine's thin upper atmosphere, toward the blank abyss of space. Somewhere out there an Imperial cruiser hurried on its way, eager to meet them, to collect the promised prize, to make a much-anticipated delivery to Vader. It was unlikely that the officer had told anyone of his catch; it would be imprudent to risk any others taking credit for the feat. Not with so much wealth at stake.

"You will be discovered as soon as you set foot on that cruiser, Womprat," the hermit reminded him.

"I said _shut up._ And its ST 66754 now, not Womprat. Nobody's gonna find me out- not when I got an ID number and a face to match everybody else." He chuckled darkly. "Too bad you don't have that advantage, Jedi."

He straightened, and slid the door open. The hermit twisted round to see, but the doorframe blocked his line of vision; and besides, his sight was still a bleeding mess of colors and painful smears of light. He heard strangled shouts, the scuffling of footsteps on the deck matting. Presently, Womprat returned, dragging the infuriated Imperial officer with him, the saber's hilt pressed close under the man's chin, just as it had been shoved beneath Womprat's a few hours ago.

"Unhand me, traitor," the Imperial hissed. His voice betrayed fear, and a certain knowledge of what the weapon could do.

"I don't answer to you," the clone replied, gutturally. "You give me the security docking code for this vessel, or I send you straight to the nine hells."

The hermit wondered whether he would in fact be able to activate the blade; the weapon, painstakingly crafted and refined over the years, was attuned to his own peculiar Force signature, its crystal responsive to his touch, and perhaps to that of a few others. But neither the clone nor his white-faced hostage guessed at this difficulty.

"I'll wait for you, clone," the officer spat. "You'll be following me in a matter of hours. Imperial security is expecting a follow up transmission on my private channel. What do you think will happen when they don't receive it? There's no corner of this galaxy far enough to escape Vader's hand, let me assure you."

The soldier tightened his grip. "Don't make me test your theory."

"Womprat," the hermit tried again. "You don't need those security codes. There is no point in attempting to land on that cruiser. The Empire will never pay the bounty to you – you'll be discreetly executed before you see any money. He knows that as well as I do."

"Hold your tongue, Jedi!" the officer barked at him. "He won't kill me, and you won't escape. "

But the clone hesitated, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion and doubt.

"There's no money in this for you, Womprat," the hermit pressed his advantage. "The best you can hope for is to escape to a distant system. I can help you do that. I can take the ship afterward, make it disappear. You need my help; I've done such things before."

The Imperial bared his teeth in rage. "You cunning filth! Don't listen to him! The Jedi are all liars and manipulators. He'll kill you himself as soon as he's free. He can cut your breath off in your throat, clone. He's a dangerous man – why else do you think Vader wants him so badly?"

Womprat made a strange sound, then- a kind of stifled cry of frustration and impotence. The hand holding the lightsaber to the Imperial's neck trembled slightly. Perspiration beaded his golden skin, trailed along his tattooed scalp.

"You told me you were a free man, Womprat. Prove it. Don't play into the Empire's game. They want me dead, they want to lure you in with promises of money. You are better than that."

But the Dark, which had first contracted with the Kaminoans to create the clone army, to bring life into existence for the sole purpose of death, to twist and torment its budding offspring into docile, ever-obedient minions of Power, had deeply planted weapons. The officer widened his humorless snarl of outrage. "Trooper!" he shouted, in a commanding tone. "Execute Order 66!"

Womprat's visage paled to ashen grey; his body stiffened, his limbs shook with reluctant submission. He screwed his face up tight, pushed the officer away from himself, came at the prisoner with the saber, his hand fumbling along its hilt to find the right switch, to bring its deadly potential into bright, murderous reality. Nothing happened. The hermit flinched as the hilt fell atop him, rolled to one side.

The clone wheeled about, hot rage written on his contorted features. "You vile –"

But the Imperial answered the accusation with a blaster bolt to the furious man's gut. The shot penetrated the white armor on both sides, careened into the bulkhead with a sizzle of carbonized plastoid. Womprat slid to the deck, groaning softly as he fell.

The officer held the small blaster casually at his side, kicked the clone's inert form behind him, bent over his captive. "So. You thought you could negotiate your way out of this? You thought you could convince him to kill me, hm?" He contemplated the Jedi sourly, his angular features flushed with a new hatred. "You know, alive does not necessarily mean undamaged."

"As you exemplify."

"Jedi scum!" The Imperial slammed a fist into the prisoner's impudent jaw with a satisfying crack. "I hope Vader disembowels you…slowly."

Womprat interrupted his tirade. The dying clone stumbled upright, flung himself at the officer with savage and desperate strength. The blaster fired, and a wild shot hit the light panel overhead, showering the small cabin in white sparks. With an agonized cry, Womprat gripped the Imperial about his throat, slewed round so that they were locked together, writhing in a silent contest. Even mortally wounded, Womprat had the upper hand. His face taut with pain and defiance, he hissed in the officer's ear.

"I _am_ a free man."

He backed toward the boarding ramp, his prisoner struggling wildly. The clone's hand went up, scrabbled across the bulkhead, seeking the release panel. His fingers found it. His fist rolled in to a ball. His eyes met the hermit's.

"Good luck, General," he choked out, and hit the control.

The hatch popped open and was wrenched apart by the screaming wind, by the reckless speed of their ascent. Womprat and the Imperial officer were sucked out into the vortex, disappearing in a tangle of limbs through the widening portal, spun away into the clear blue Tatooinian sky, into sun-drenched oblivion.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Familiar Face**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

The ship continued to rise, soaring through the rapidly thinning atmosphere toward the cruiser which waited, hawk-like, gently circling above the barren planet. The air in the cabin grew frigid, too thin to breathe, tattered by the perpetual scream of wind outside the open hatch. The hermit gasped, laboring to fill his lungs, reaching desperately for the Light which he couldn't quite grasp…

…blackness impinged upon his blurry vision, red specks floating before his eyes, a roaring in his ears to match the howl of wind outside. When they reached clear space, he would be instantly killed. The Imperials would receive nothing but a frozen corpse, a pathetic trifle to offer up on the altar of Vader's wrath. And there would be nobody to collect the half million credits. Womprat's last words echoed in his mind, the scream of the Imperial officer as he was pulled into death's maw. Always the screaming, the falling, the terror. It would never leave him. It marred even these, his last moments.

His lungs burned, spasmed. The end was coming. He closed his eyes, turning away form the blackness and pain into the Light. And it reached back – a single beam breaking through the miasma of toxins and exhaustion, a tiny piercing glimmer of hope, of sheerest grace. He seized it, drank it in, extended a hand toward the boarding ramp's control panel across the space and hit the switch with the Force. The hatch creaked shut; the howling ceased; a trickle of fresh air hissed through the life support vents. He sucked it in, floundering for a few moments, until the fog surrounding his consciousness cleared a little.

The ship was _still_ on its way to the Imperial cruiser above. He must act, or perish. If the Force had granted him even the thinnest thread of hope, he must not squander it. He reached for the Light again, discovered it. Barely present, it shone faintly within him, just enough to move the lightsaber, slowly, slowly…painstakingly, as though it were a two-ton boulder…up, into the air, over his head, into his hands. He gripped the familiar hilt gratefully. He knew what he had to do. Cautiously positioning the emitter so that the blade might sear through the binders' joint, he twisted his hands and wrists as far apart as he could, tightened his grasp, and flicked the activator. Snap-hiss-buzz, and the restraints were destroyed – though not before they bestowed a final parting jolt of fire.

He uttered an obscenity seldom employed, stilled his trembling muscles, rolled upright. His feet, similarly liberated, hit the decking. He stood – and then slid gracelessly to the hard floor.

"Blast it to the hells." He didn't have _time_ for this. But since when had the Force ever made it easy for him? Such was not his fate. He heaved his body upright, taking note of the drug-induced nausea, the tangled mess of sight and sound, the leaden ache deep in his limbs, the throbbing headache. He stumbled through the cockpit hatch, collapsed into the pilot's chair. Half-blind, he groped at the console. This Imperial shuttle was nothing more than a refurbished ship from the days of the Grand Army; he had flown its like many a time. Somehow he found the autopilot override and reverted the controls to full manual.

And then he headed downward to the pitiless dustball that was his new home.

"Shuttle IX-90. You have deviated from your flight pattern. Please explain." A grating voice warbled at him across the open comm. channel. The speaker sounded irritated.

He fumbled with the comm. panel for a few seconds, and hit the distress beacon. Yes, that would nicely circumvent any need for tedious conversation.

"Shuttle IX-90. Your distress signal received. Do you require assistance?"

Assistance? Force, no. That was the last thing he needed. He was going to have to do this quickly, lest a horde of eager Imperial busy-bodies smother him with unwanted attention. He plunged directly back through the cloudless atmosphere, diving down thousands of meters in one long, reckless dive. It was not really his preferred piloting style, but these were hard times.

"Shuttle IX-90. Release escape pod and activate homing beacon. Repeat. Evacuate immediately."

Not quite yet. A crashed shuttle sans its three previous occupants and its valuable cargo would still attract too much attention, raise too many questions. He had to make sure the ship was never found, or at least never positively identified. Sadly, Tatooine was lacking in vast oceanic expanses, or active volcanos. He pulled the nose up a little, skimmed at a breakneck, completely unsafe speed over the undulating dunes of sand, the ridges of wind-sculpted rock. The desert. A line of banthas there….a huge rusted landcrawler there.

He slowed a little. Yes, a landcrawler. That was a stroke of luck- or the will of the Force. He plummeted down into the sands a few klicks from the landcrawler, pulling up on the yoke at the last instant, watching as waves of hot grit spattered and clawed across the viewport, sprayed up around the ship in huge jets, half-buried it as the scorched hull slammed and skidded across the dunes, wings shearing off, thrusters choking on the sand, shielding tearing off with ear-splitting shrieks. The last impact almost threw him through the viewport. His forehead still hit the console, restraints or not. The ship came to rest in a mangled heap, deep in the wastelands where none dwelt but the scavenging Jawas and other desert gypsies.

Wiping a trickle of blood out of his eyes, he shakily stood and began carving his way out through the cockpit roof. He had to clamber out of the opening like a Kowakian monkey lizard- a simple leap upward proved too much for his abused body, for his still tenuous grasp of the Force. He slid down the side of the wrecked shuttle, landing shin-deep in still-hot sand. Overhead three moons smiled sardonically upon his antics, their wan faces sneering idly at his plight.

A half-hour's trudging brought him within hailing distance of the massive crawler. Not that the Jawas would have stopped for a mere hitchhiker; but the crash was a bait too tempting to pass by. Soon enough the lumbering hulk of their transport had ground to a halt, moonlight glinting on its dark contours, and a scuttling herd of the tiny desert people swarmed over the sand toward him, their weirdly illuminated eyes glinting bright orange in the night, their pointed hoods bouncing comically as they drew nigh.

"Utinni! Yama doowah go booshi miha!" they jabbered at him. Their Huttese was rattled off too quickly, with their own peculiar dialectic twist. He could barely understand them. He pointed wearily in the direction of the destroyed shuttle.

With several shouts of glee, the scavenging party took off in the direction of the wreck. Another dozen members of the tribe appeared, bearing glow lanterns, and bringing a small crane and a pair of antique tech droids with them. They passed him wordlessly, grunting and pointing among themselves, focused on the task ahead. Finally a threesome of very ancient, withered and bow-backed Jawas – possibly females, crones of the family – gathered round him, tugging at his garments, poking him in the side, chattering and cooing at him incomprehensibly.

His head hurt worse than before, if possible. He pulled his cloak closer against the bitter night winds, which pricked at his sweat-soaked skin and hair. Here, on the high plans of the wasteland, day's inferno could transform to deathly chill within hours of sunset. The Jawas tugged at his clothing, pushed at him with tiny gloved hands. He craned his head round one more time to observe the progress of the others; within hours the ship would be dismantled, stripped and gutted of anything useful, anything remotely identifiable. Even the bare framework could be broken up and melted for scrap. The desert was ultimately efficient; so must its denizens be.

He explained to the pestering Jawa women that he needed a ride back into town; that he could pay them when they arrived. Some haggling and fussing later, and they shepherded him into the bowels of the crawler. He staggered up the ramp, into blessed warmth and painful bright light, and sank down on the rumbling deck in the corner they allotted him, behind some stacked cargo crates marked with the Imperial insignia and covered in stern warnings against theft. One of the shriveled crones eventually came to offer him a dish of revolting gruel, which he waved away.

At some point, he lapsed into true illness, his fevered body rejecting and purging the Empire's evil drugs as thoroughly as the Empire had hoped to cleanse the galaxy of Jedi. The Jawa women looked on in curious detachment as he was repeatedly sick. When he had finished, they threw a canteen of tepid water and a thin thermal blanket in his general direction, and left him curled on the deck, shivering. One even patted him on the head as she withdrew. He coughed, too weak to disdain their scant pity. Here, in the shelter of the Jawa's crawler, under the guise of a piteous victim of bantha flu, he was safe from prying eyes. Eventually, as the Force slowly churned and reformed itself around him, bringing sweet relief from harrowing deprivation, he slept.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Familiar Face**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

The town had not changed much in the single planetary rotation that had elapsed since the hermit's innocent foray into civilization – or what passed for it here on Tatooine – the previous morning. The two suns were just peeping over the dull horizon when the Jawa transport lumbered its way to a halt outside the city limits, a location also conveniently just outside the jurisdiction of the purely nominal law enforcement agency. The nomadic traders and their erstwhile guest sallied into the outskirts of the settlement before many pedestrians yet crowded the lanes and alleys, before the streets were abuzz with gossip and flies.

The first order of business was, of course, the settling of the hermit's debt. He regretfully untied his eopie from its corral, where it had spent a comfortable night in the company of other beasts, steadily munching through the remainder of its feedbag.

"I am sorry, my friend, but it seems we must part ways," the hermit told it, with an almost affectionate pat on its shaggy and decidedly unintelligent rump. The eopie happily allowed him to lead it away to the market place, which was a jumble of hastily erected vendor's stalls and heaped wares. He sold the poor creature to a feisty old Toydarian junk dealer who had come to purchase spare parts and needed a beast of burden. The hermit even allowed the obnoxious little fellow to cheat him badly. Anything else would have raised suspicions.

The vast majority of his profits he was obliged to yield over to the Jawas, who pocketed them with manifest joy and gamboled away on their next errand. The hermit found his way to the main street, where cantinas and gambling houses lined both sides of the dusty thoroughfare. Steeping over the drunken form of his young Rodian friend, sprawled indecorously in a gutter, he entered the same establishment in which he had fist laid eyes on Womprat.

Womprat. A free man. An individual, not a mere clone – a unique spark kindled in the Living Force, unfettered by the Empire. Perhaps there was hope for the galaxy after all. He sank into a dark booth in the room's corner, and massaged his temples. He was stranded here, without a ready way to travel back across the open desert to his lonely retreat in the hills, and without sufficient credits to buy discreet transport thither. But never mind…a solution would present itself. In the meanwhile, he still felt too ill to bother much about it.

"Hey!" a young woman's voice interrupted his half-dazed reverie. "We're not open yet, You gotta scoot- if the boss finds you in here before business hours, he'll dock my wages, maybe fire me. We don't let tramps stay overnight."

The woman held a cleaning tool, and surveyed him with hands on hips. He raised his head and stroked a weary hand over his dust-encrusted beard. "Forgive me. I just stopped in for some _demudo._ Surely if I pay for breakfast, it is business hours?" He gently set the small remaining stack of credits on the greasy tabletop.

"Huh," the girl smiled, scooping up the whole pile. "Guess so."

She returned a few minutes later with a steaming platter of the local hangover remedy. The hermit choked it down, confident in the folk remedy's power to assuage the aftereffects of intoxication – or toxic shock – but unwilling to speculate at all upon its composition and origin. When he had cleaned the plate, he shoved it aside and discreetly took his leave.

The streets were filling up again. Morning sunshine warmed the earth; the Rodian in the gutter stirred and dragged himslef into an adjacent cantina, presumably for a generous helping of _demudo. _People thronged the busy central aisle, gathered to chat and haggle on corners and in the shaded awnings of the local businesses. The Wanted posters still hung, a little tattered and faded, upon walls here and there. The hermit looked askance at the first two he passed, but found his way over to the next one and surreptitiously studied its array of images and posted bounties. Many of the names and faces had been crossed out. His remained. He lifted a hand to swiftly tear the thing down….and then he stopped.

Let it stay. Let all who saw it be reminded that at least one of the undesirables, the enemies of the Empire and all that it stood for, had escaped and remained defiant and unbroken, a tribute to the imperfection and limitations of the new Order. Let it be a spitwad in the Empire's eye. Yes. That was better. He tugged his hood further forward, in what had become an unconscious habit, and continued on his way, wandering along the length of the street, reveling in the sheer undiluted glory of the Force. Even here, it shone invisibly around him, effulgent in the drab setting, as unfettered and wild as the future which the Empire sought so vainly to shape and control. He brushed shoulders with an Imperial trooper patrolling the street, excused himself with an insincere apology, moved on unnoticed. The Force murmured, amusement rippling in its depths, so much like Qui Gon's Jinn's long-forgotten but once familiar chuckle . It told him to turn left, away from the pedestrian center, and he did.

The blare of a speeder's horn brought him abruptly to a standstill. Owen Lars sat in a dilapidated vehicle, idling at the edge of the road.

"Need a ride?" he offered gruffly. "I'm headed back your way."

Surprised, taken off guard for the second time in as many days, he agreed. Something must have showed on his face, for Lars cleared his throat apologetically. "Look – I know what you did over at the pharmacy. It wasn't necessary."

The man was proud and stubborn. One had to tread carefully. "Oh, but it was," he replied gently. "The food Beru gave me a few months back – during the famine. I was deeply grateful. It made that time tolerable. I only wanted to pay back the favor."

"She gave you food, eh?" The moisture farmer was caught between irritation at the beggar and admiration for his wife. The latter sentiment won out in the end. "Oh, well. That's different, then. We're even."

"Yes," the hermit concurred. "Quite."

They rode in silence, the hot sun beating down on them as the klicks rolled away, with delicious speed. Lars stopped the speeder at a short distance from the rocky outcroppings where the hermit made his dwelling. "You should be good from here," he said, by way of dismissal.

"Thank you- very much," his passenger said, clambering over the speeder's side a bit stiffly. "May your kindness be rewarded."

Owen Lars nodded, and then paused. "Look," he added, suddenly, as though giving up an internal battle. "I've got the medicine. The baby should be fine now. Thought you'd like to know."

The hermit nodded once and smiled. "Yes, I'm glad to hear it."

But that was all the farmer was willing to give him. He kicked the speeder back into life and zoomed away, not looking back.

The hermit sighed with relief, and with bone deep weariness, and began the short hike back to his hidden cave. His thoughts strayed momentarily to other caves, to other times, to circumstances less lonely and diminished. But the Force shone here, too. It was no respecter of persons, nor of lofty and glorious surroundings. Indeed, eschewed by the vast Empire, perhaps now it favored such downtrodden places as this. Perhaps.

He reached the humble refuge of his home and retired gratefully into its spare, cool interior, closing the door behind him. The planet slowly turned on its axis, the suns crawled across the ecliptic, sank on the eastern horizon, suffusing the sky with a riot of color. The stars came out of exile, one by one, to keep their serene nighttime vigil….waiting patiently, like the hermit, for the future to unfold.


End file.
